


The Most Wonderful Time

by cassie_black



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nice Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Past Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Pining Arthur, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27962339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassie_black/pseuds/cassie_black
Summary: Where Morgana meddles, Arthur pines, and Merlin thinks he’s Lizzie Bennett! Christmas with the Pendragons is going to be a little different this year.
Relationships: Leon/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 168
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	The Most Wonderful Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clea2011](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clea2011/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Clea2011. I had such a hard time choosing from your prompts – there were so many good ones that I smushed a few of them together instead. I hope you enjoy the end result.

If there’s one thing Arthur hates more than being trapped in a stiff tuxedo with suffocating bow tie, it’s being stuffed into the aforementioned outfit whilst in attendance at the annual _Pendragon Industries_ Christmas party. He’d tried his best to get out of it this year. Had created what _he_ thought was the perfect excuse. Except he had reckoned without Merlin’s pout, Morgana’s frosty glare, and Uther’s patented speech about family and duty, which never fails to make Arthur feel like a small, scolded child. In the face of all three, he caved. Just as any man with an ounce of self-preservation would have done.

All of which is why he has spent the last ten minutes sipping tepid champagne, whilst listening to Geoffrey from Accounts enthuse about his ever-expanding cactus collection.

“This is all your fault, you realise?” Arthur stifles a sigh of relief as Geoffrey makes his way off in search of a new audience, and turns his attention to the new arrival. 

“Cactuses?” Merlin doesn’t even bother to hide his enjoyment in Arthur’s suffering.

“Cacti,” Arthur corrects primly.

Merlin’s eyes are bright with amusement over the rim of his champagne flute, and Arthur just knows he made that mistake to irk him.

“All your fault,” he repeats, and plucks the second flute from Merlin’s other hand. He takes a sip – he’s not a fan of champagne, but he’s found these events always pass a little easier with the buzz of alcohol in his veins.

“Naturally,” Merlin agrees, grin undiminished. “I’m sure you’ll find some suitable way for me to make it up to you, though.”

For a second, Arthur thinks he hears _something_ in Merlin’s tone, and he’s not quite sure what to make of it. But the room is loud with conversation, and the world’s worst DJ has decided that Cliff Richard is exactly what this party needs to really kick off, so there’s a good chance that he just imagined it.

“You can be sure of that, Merlin. In fact, you can start by bringing some of your mum’s fudge back with you in the New Year. It’s time you learnt to share.”

“I’m just thinking of you.” Merlin pokes Arthur’s stomach with a fingertip. “No one needs those extra calories in January.”

Not for the first time, Arthur wishes he had it in him to be annoyed with Merlin, but that ship has long since sailed. The most he can muster nowadays is a vague sense of irritation, tinged with a level of fondness that would concern Arthur if he allowed himself to dwell on it overmuch. 

He fixes Merlin with a glare, the effectiveness of which has long since passed, and bats Merlin’s hand away. “That’s muscle.”

“Of course.” Merlin’s tone is soothing but his expression unrepentant.

“I am not _fat_.”

Merlin gives him a considering look from head to toe that takes entirely too long. “No,” he agrees slowly. “But we both know you’re prone to it. Morgana told me the swing story.”

Unlike with Merlin, Arthur has no trouble being annoyed with his sister, and he makes a mental note to extract revenge in some suitable way very soon. “That wasn’t my fault. She...” Arthur comes to a halt as he realises Merlin has, as usual, successfully distracted him. “Just see that the fudge makes it back in once piece this time. I know Hunith makes extra for me, and I’m sure she’d be disappointed to hear if I don’t receive it.”

“Hunith?” Merlin mouths silently. “Since when are you and my mum on first name terms?”

“We talk,” Arthur replies, expression smug. It’s not often Merlin is wrong-footed so he takes a moment to relish it.

Merlin says nothing for a moment, preferring instead to switch out his empty glass for new one from the tray of a passing waiter. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” he says finally, “but there won’t be any fudge this year.”

Arthur is about to bite back when he notices the usual teasing expression is absent from Merlin’s face. “And why is that?”

“I’m not going home for Christmas.” 

Merlin is trying very hard to sound casual, that much is clear, but it falls short to Arthur’s ears.

“Merlin, what—”

“It’s nothing.” Merlin gives a dismissive wave of his empty hand. “My uncle’s sick, so she’s gone to take care of him.”

“You never mentioned it.” And Arthur can’t help but be a little put out by that. Merlin might be an employee of Pendragon Industries, but he’s also Arthur’s _friend_.

“It never occurred to me to.” Merlin looks vaguely confused about why Arthur would even be interested, and that can’t be allowed to stand.

“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning that you’ll be spending Christmas alone? That is what’s happening, right?”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s just one year. It’s no big deal.”

“But it’s _Christmas_ ,” Arthur says, scandalised. 

“It’s fine,” Merlin insists. “I don’t know why you’re making—Arthur, your father’s coming over!” 

Arthur releases Merlin’s fingers from where they are currently clutching his sleeve. “Stop trying to distract me. Now, tell me what—"

“I mean it.” Merlin’s fingers are back wrinkling the fabric of Arthur’s jacket. “He’s heading right for us, and his expression looks, well, weird.”

Normally Arthur's amused by the way Merlin goes to pieces around his father, but this time his mind is on other things.

“You can’t spend Christmas alone.”

“Of course he can’t.” Despite Merlin’s warning, Arthur still jolts a little at the sound of his father’s voice.

“Father.” 

“I heard about Gaius’s ill health. Please pass on my best wishes.”

Merlin chokes a little on the mouthful of champagne he’d ill-advisedly taken and flushes brightly. “Of course, Sir.” 

Arthur forgets sometimes that his father had close ties to Merlin’s family in the past. Usually, when he remembers, he can’t help wonder what his life would have been like with a friend like Merlin growing up, but he has more pressing matters to consider right now.

“Merlin’s going to be alone for Christmas.”

“Arthur!” Merlin’s tone is soft, but urgent, and the _shut up_ comes through loud and clear. 

“How am I supposed to enjoy my turkey knowing you’re stuck at home, all alone in that pokey flat of yours, huddled round a bowl of gruel or something.”

Despite his usual fear of Uther’s presence, Merlin grins. “Arthur, in your head, am I Oliver Twist? Look, I appreciate the concern, but I’m a grown man – I eat dinner alone most nights, one more won’t make any difference.”

“Unacceptable!”

Arthur’s mouth is open to reply, but the words aren’t his. He turns in surprise to his father.

“You can’t spend Christmas alone. It just isn’t right. And this one,” he nods at Arthur, “will doubtless be unbearable all day if you do. So really you’d be doing me a favour.”

“A favour?” Merlin repeats dubiously.

“Father, what are you saying?” 

“He’ll spend Christmas with us, of course.”

“Oh no, that’s not...I can’t do that.” Even the tips of Merlin’s ears are red, and his eyes are wider than Arthur had thought it was possible for them to go. “That’s really not necessary.” 

“Nonsense. We’ve plenty of room.” Uther claps one hand heavily on Merlin’s shoulder, and Arthur watches as his face cycles through a number of strange expressions before it settles on a warm smile. “You’ll come down with Arthur early on the 24th.”

Uther doesn’t wait for Merlin’s agreement – Arthur knows that, to him, it’s already a done deal; People don’t say no to Uther Pendragon. He watches him head across the room in stunned silence and wonders if he’s slipped into a parallel universe or something. Yes, as soon as he’d heard Merlin’s situation, he was determined to take him home for Christmas, but he’d expected some resistance. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought his father would be the one to suggest it. 

“What just happened?” Merlin looks even more stunned than Arthur.

“I have no idea.” And really, Arthur genuinely doesn’t.

*****

“Are you sure your dad was serious about this?” Even as he loads his bags into Arthur’s car, Merlin still looks on the verge of bolting.

Arthur slams the boot shut and turns a glare on his friend. “Have you ever known my father say something he doesn’t mean?”

“Well, no.” Merlin slides into the passenger seat and immediately begins fiddling with the radio. “But even you have to admit this is unusual.”

“Yes, it’s unusual. It’s as unusual as it was the thirty other times you asked me that question. You ask me once more, and I’ll strap you to the roof.” Arthur fires up the engine and then slaps Merlin’s hands away. “Stop that.”

“But it’s Radio 2.”

“And it’ll stay Radio 2.” Arthur gives one last glare before turning his attention to the road, then smiles to himself at the sight of Merlin’s pout. 

Arthur’s smugness fades about ten minutes into the journey as he realises Zoe Ball has embraced the festive spirit and is playing a solid hour of Christmas songs. Merlin bops his head happily along to Slade, his gaze fixed on the passing city, while Arthur’s knuckles turn increasingly white on the steering wheel. It’s not that he hates Christmas, far from it, but it’s half past seven in the morning and he’s normally had at least three coffees by now.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. Family Christmases are always a good time, even with the inevitable row between Morgana and their father, and this year he has Merlin as an additional buffer against that potential awkwardness. Arthur knows it’s selfish to think it, but he really is glad that Merlin had nowhere to go – so much of their friendship is based around the office right now, so it will be nice to _really_ get to know him without work getting in the way.

Once he’s fought his way free from the M25 – and really, how are there still so many people on the roads this close to Christmas? – Arthur begins to make good time on the journey. Wiltshire isn’t that far away, just a little under two hours, so with any luck they’ll arrive close enough to nine that he’ll be able to sweet talk Mrs Harris into rustling up some breakfast for them. Comforted by the prospect of a bacon roll and a vat of coffee, Arthur settles in to enjoy the rest of his drive. Using the time to think of all the things he wants to show Merlin while they’re there.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

“At the risk of seeing Wiltshire from the roof of your car...” Merlin tails off a little uncertainly.

“Yes,” Arthur prompts slowly, not sure he wants Merlin to continue, but knowing it’s much less painful than letting him fester on whatever it is for the remainder of the journey.

Merlin shifts in his seat, and though Arthur can’t see his gaze, he knows it’s fixed on him nonetheless.

“You don’t think it’s strange that _your_ father, _my_ boss technically, has invited me into his family home for Christmas dinner?”

“Yes, Merlin, I find it as strange as I did the other dozen or so times you asked.”

“Did he say why though?” Merlin pushes, impervious, as always, to Arthur’s sarcasm.

“You know as much as I do.” Arthur shrugs. “We were both there for the conversation.”

“You haven’t asked him since?”

“Merlin,” Arthur chances a glance sideways, “surely you know my father well enough by now to know that _no one_ questions him?”

“That’s just it,” and Merlin sounds faintly agitated, “I don’t know him at all. I’d barely said ‘hello’ to him before the Christmas party, and now he’s there every time I turn around. He made me a cup of tea in the break room yesterday. _A cup of tea_ ,” Merlin repeats in scandalised tones.

It was odd, Arthur can admit that much, but every so often Uther gets seized by the notion that he’s failed his son by being a distant parent, and consequently goes overboard in his quest to make up for it. Arthur assumes that’s what’s happening here, and he’s not inclined to expose his father’s insecurities to Merlin. They’re not _that_ close. Not yet, at least. So instead, he says,

“I think he’s just trying to get to know you. Make things a bit less awkward during your stay. Don’t worry, you haven’t picked up a stalker.”

Merlin snorts in amusement and doesn’t press any further, but Arthur can tell he wants to. It would be a wasted effort though, because all Arthur has are speculations that he’s not willing to share.

“What time are Leon and Morgana arriving?” Merlin asks, and Arthur flashes him a grateful smile for the change of topic.

“Some time this afternoon,” Arthur says, then swears softly under his breath as the car in front breaks unexpectedly. “I think Leon’s learnt not to be too specific with timings because Morgana rarely troubles herself with punctuality.” _Things begin when Morgana arrives_ is her philosophy, or so she says. Arthur thinks it’s more that she’s got a Masters in procrastination and can’t get her arse out of bed in the morning.

Merlin’s met Morgana on several occasions, each one of which she was late for, so he grins at this. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for us to all come in the one car, though? Lessen the carbon footprint a little?”

The prospect of being trapped in a car for two hours with Morgana is not something Arthur relishes. He had enough of that when they were children – long car rides to Cornwall with Morgana pinching and poking him all the way, and then faking tears so Arthur would get the blame. He shudders slightly at the memory.

“It’s easier if they come separately,” Arthur says, as he finally manages to pull free of the car that has been meandering aimlessly in front for the last five miles. “Morgana likes to have an escape route in case things with Father get a bit much.”

“Oh,” is all Merlin says, and Arthur realises that maybe his phrasing wasn’t the best.

“It’s nothing serious,” he reassures. “Not really. It’s just there are certain subjects that he has very strong opinions about, so it’s best to leave alone. Unless, of course, you’re planning to agree with him.”

“And I’m guessing Morgana doesn’t?”

“Agree with him? Rarely.” Never, if Arthur is being honest, but he doesn’t want to paint an entirely negative picture of his family before Merlin sees them together. “But she does take great delight in provoking him.” Arthur glances sideways. “When that happens, it’s best to just take cover and wait for the storm to pass.”

“Literally?” Merlin asks. “I mean, are you suggesting I might need to climb under the table midway through my turkey?”

“You could try that,” Arthur says, with a laugh. “It might be enough to stop them in their tracks. God knows nothing else does!”

“You’re not exactly selling this to me.”

“You’ll be fine, Merlin.” Arthur reaches over and pats Merlin’s thigh in an effort at reassurance. “I’ll protect you.”

“My hero.”

Arthur laughs again, but tries resolutely not to analyse why Merlin’s words and accompanying smile make him feel so content.

The rest of the journey passes by pleasantly. The road is relatively clear now they’re out of the city, Radio 2 is finally playing something that doesn’t have a backing track of sleigh bells, and Merlin has taken the opportunity for a quick nap – although how he can sleep with his neck at such an awkward angle, and his head occasionally banging against the window is beyond Arthur. But sleep he does.

It’s a little after 9am when they finally reach the village of Albion, and at the sight of the large Christmas tree on the frost-covered village green, Arthur feels something tense inside him relax. He loves living in London – loves the fast pace, the social life, how accessible everything is – but there’s something about this place, the memories he built here as a child, that will always be home to him. It’s the only place he’s ever felt truly able to relax and be himself, and, more importantly, it’s where he feels closest to his mother. He doesn’t have any actual memories of her – she died too soon after his birth for that – but the people here knew her, will talk about her to him in a way that his father never would (or could), and it allows him to feel her presence in a way that nowhere else does. 

Country life doesn’t stop for Christmas, so there are plenty of people out and about already. Arthur waves at the few people he recognises, and then just allows himself to drink in the sights – he really is home. A quick poke to the ribs has Merlin jolting awake with one final bump of his head against the glass.

“Arthur,” he whines, and rubs the red spot on his forehead.

“We’re almost there,” Arthur replies, as he gestures at the open gates up ahead.

Merlin’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight of a long, gated drive. “Arthur,” he begins carefully, “just how big is your house, exactly?”

 _Big_ is the answer. Even Arthur, who grew up there, knows his home is not like other people’s – after all, it’s not everyone who has a church in their grounds, or grounds at all for that matter, but it’s the only home he’s ever known, so he tends not to consider that part until he’s forced to see it through other people’s eyes.

“Quite big,” he hedges, because as much as he would enjoy seeing that first reaction, Merlin looks slightly panicked right now, and Arthur would really rather not deal. 

“Quite big?” Merlin repeats, clearly not pacified. “Are talking 4 bed detached big, or Buckingham Palace?”

“Somewhere in between.”

Merlin huffs and crosses his arms. “You didn’t think to mention that you live in a castle?”

“It’s not a bloody castle, Merlin. Stop being so dramatic.” Arthur slows down to navigate a cattle grid, and takes the opportunity to look at his passenger. “It’s a big house, okay. But you aren’t visiting Downton Abbey, or whatever ridiculous period drama you have running around in that head of yours. It’s my home.”

“So no maids or butlers?” Merlin sounds almost disappointed, and Arthur can’t keep up with the way his mood swings.

“No.” 

“Oh.”

There’s silence then, until, “Well, we do have a housekeeper – Mrs Harris. She’s been with us for years. And there’s a couple of cleaners. But that’s it, I promise.”

“You have servants?”

“Employees. Well paid ones, too, so don’t start with your communist nonsense.”

“Socialist,” Merlin corrects primly. “And it’s not nonsense.”

“I dare say,” Arthur agrees. “Maybe don’t mention it around my father if you can help it. Politics is one of the things guaranteed to set him off, and I’d rather not have you _and_ Morgana driving off in a huff.”

Merlin pouts, but then curiosity wins out. “Did she really?”

“Oh, most years. That’s why the separate car.” Arthur can smile at the memories now his ears are no longer ringing with raised voices. “Although, not so much since Leon. He’s the only person who can rein her in at all.”

“Arthur!” Merlin grabs his arm as they round the corner and the house comes into view. “It’s huge.”

“That’s what she said,” comes out of Arthur’s mouth before he’s even had chance to think about it. He gets a slap on the arm for his troubles.

“Idiot.” Merlin shifts in his seat, peering out of the windscreen as they descend past the small church towards to reservoir in front of the house. “It’s like something out of Pride and Prejudice.” Then he gasps, “I’m Lizzie Bennett!”

Arthur laughs at the theatrics. “I have always thought you’d look fetching in a bonnet,” he agrees. “Hang on, does that mean I’m Mr Darcy?”

“Hardly. Bingley, maybe, but you’re no Colin Firth.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “But if you are tempted to go swimming in there,” he nods to the reservoir, “at any point, make sure to pop a white shirt on first. And give me a heads up.”

Not for the first time Arthur wonders if Merlin’s teasing is actually flirting, but he’s still no closer to figuring the answer out, so he just huffs and says, “There’s many things I want for Christmas, Merlin. However, hypothermia is not among them.”

“Spoilsport.” They cross the bridge and pull towards the house – Merlin’s eyes never leaving the view. “Seriously, though, it really is like something out of period drama. I can’t imagine growing up somewhere like this.”

“It’s not bad, is it?” Arthur says, secretly pleased that Merlin seems to like it. He might not live here anymore, but it still _matters_.

As they pull to a halt in front of the house, Arthur spots the wooden doors opening and sees his father emerge, almost as if he’s been watching for their arrival. A pair of boisterous spaniels tumble out after him.

“Are you sure it’s not too late to change my mind?” Merlin’s nervously watching Uther’s approach in the rear view mirror, and Arthur can’t help but smile at his obvious nerves.

“A couple of hours too late, yes,” Arthur replies with a laugh. “But cheer up, as long as you don’t mention politics, the Royal family, the EU,” Arthur ticks each one off on a finger as he goes, “Americans, religion—”

“So I should just stay mute is what you’re saying?”

If possible, Merlin looks even paler than usual, so Arthur relents. “You’ll be fine,” he says, with a clap to Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m just winding you up, mostly. Look,” Arthur shifts around so he’s fully facing Merlin, “he can be a bit prickly, and I really would suggest avoiding politics, but he seems to like you, so relax.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Merlin, he wouldn’t have invited you if he didn’t want you here. Now grab your stuff and get out – this is starting to look awkward.” Arthur nods to where Uther and his canine companions are waiting expectantly.

“Arthur!” No sooner has the car door closed behind him, than Uther strides forward, beaming smile in place, and pulls him into a hug as if it’s been months, rather than days since they saw each other last.

Arthur takes a moment to wonder if his father has been in the sherry already, before he’s treated to the sight of Merlin receiving a hug of his own. Definitely the sherry, Arthur decides, and makes a mental note to check with Mrs Harris later. Abandoning Merlin to his fate, he pops the boot open and begins unloading their bags – really, for a skinny bloke who seems to live in jeans and hoodies, Merlin does not travel light.

“How was the drive?” Uther has released Merlin and now relieves Arthur of his burden.

“Not too bad. Once we got off the M25.”

“Like a giant bloody car park,” Uther grumbles before Arthur can realise his mistake. But instead of the usual rant that typically follows about the woeful state of the UK’s infrastructure, the smile remains in place. “Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

Arthur feels as stunned as Merlin looks right now. Obviously he knows a different side of his father to the somewhat austere image he projects in public, but nothing on this level. There’s definitely more than a drop of sherry at work here.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, and slams the boot shut. “We’re really looking forward to the break, aren’t we, Merlin?” He holds out Merlin’s bag as he speaks, only for Uther to pluck that from his hands also.

Merlin looks up from where his attention had been grabbed by the dogs, a little flustered to find the focus on him again. “Oh yes, definitely. Thank you again for inviting me, Sir.”

Uther beams; there really was no other word for it. “None of that _sir_ nonsense. It’s Uther. And we’re glad to have you, aren’t we boys?

As if on command, the spaniels begin excitedly barking at Merlin’s feet.

“See, Merlin,” Arthur gives him a pointed dig with his elbow.

“Now, let’s get you two settled in, and then we can have a late breakfast.” Uther turns towards the house, bags in hand. “You boys hungry?”

“God yes!” Arthur grabs the remaining bags and follows after his father. “I’ve been looking forward to one of Mrs Harris’s breakfasts for weeks.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck today.” Uther pushes the door open and is immediately knocked out of the way by the dogs, who seem determined to be inside first. “Winston! Monty! Calm down!” 

Even this chastisement lacks its usual force, Arthur notes. He says nothing, however, and instead waits for Merlin to catch up – he’s too busy admiring the large Christmas tree which has pride of place in the entrance hall.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

“It really is.” Merlin turns wide eyes to Uther. “You have a lovely home, Mr...Uther, Sir.”

Arthur is reminded once again, just how much he enjoys the sight of Merlin with flushed cheeks. “Don’t worry,” he says in soothing tones, “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Indeed you will. And you can see more of the house after breakfast – I’m sure Arthur will give you the tour – but let’s get these bags to your room first.”

Merlin nods agreement with alacrity and moves to take a bag from Uther, only to be waved off.

“I’ve put you in the Marlborough Suite,” Uther announces, as they make their way up the curved staircase. “It has the biggest room, so I thought it would make more sense than your old one.”

“You are privileged,” Arthur teases Merlin quietly. “Only the most _honoured_ guests get the Marlborough Suite.”

He says this just in time for Uther to announce, “Churchill himself once slept in here, you know,” as he pushes the door open and steps inside. Arthur ushers Merlin in after.

Uther puts the bags on the floor and looks round the room, suddenly slightly awkward. “Well,” he says, “I’ll leave you two to get freshened up. There’s towels there for both of you,” he nods at the bed, “and I’ll be down in the kitchen when you’re done.” With that, he departs, leaving a confused Arthur, and a mildly panicked Merlin behind.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, careful and slow, “is it possible that your father thinks we’re...you know?” He gestures at the bed as if to illustrate his point.

Arthur very much _does know_. He wants to say, _of course not, don’t be ridiculous_ , but he looks from their combined luggage on the floor, to the double sets of towels on the large king size bed, and knows it would be a lie. What on earth made his father decide such a thing? And, more importantly to Arthur, how is he so _relaxed_ about it? Uther Pendragon is nothing if not conservative, yet the way he has responded to Merlin can only be described as warm.

“What the fuck is going on?” Arthur thinks finally, before realising he’s actually said it out loud when Merlin echoes the sentiment. 

“Do you think he invited me here to do away with me? For besmirching your reputation?”

“Do be sensible, Merlin. And stop reading whatever trash it is that puts such ridiculous ideas into your head.” He pauses then as the truth of it hits him. “I think he invited you here to welcome you into the family!”

While Arthur is on the verge of full blown panic, Merlin seems slightly less phased about their supposed love affair. He kicks off his shoes and flops back onto the bed with a sigh of utter satisfaction. “I must admit he’s a lot calmer about his son having a big gay romance than I would have expected him to be.”

“It’s very odd,” Arthur agrees, as he perches on the edge of the bed. “How the hell has he got this idea into his head? He barely sees us together, so I don’t know how...actually, scratch that, of course I do.”

Arthur strides over to where he’d discarded his jacket on a beautifully upholstered chair. 

“Arthur?” Merlin twists a little on the bed to look, but is clearly too comfy to move.

“I’m going to kill her,” Arthur announces as he dials his sister’s number. “And there is no big gay romance,” he snaps at Merlin.

Which is of course when someone answers the phone. “Arthur, is that you?” 

Thank god it’s Leon, he thinks, and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. 

Merlin has rolled over on the bed and is now mock pouting up at him, chin on hands. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me. And on Christmas Eve, too.”

Arthur is going to strangle him, he really is. “I’m not breaking up with you,” he yells in exasperation.

“Arthur, did you mean to dial this number?”

Bugger, he’d forgotten about Leon for a moment. Still, at least it wasn’t—

“Arthur, is that Merlin with you?”

Morgana, of course. Because things weren’t quite bad enough already.

“Yes, it’s Merlin,” he says through gritted teeth, but it’s never a good idea to evade her questions.

“Put me on speaker – I want to talk to him.”

Arthur switches the phone over to speaker and tosses it on the bed.

“Merlin, darling, how are you?”

Merlin has only met Morgana a handful of times, but they were enough for them to strike up a friendship that could give Arthur nightmares if he thought about it enough. 

“Morgana,” Merlin says happily. “Arthur is being mean to me.”

“I heard,” she replies. “Arthur, how can you even think about breaking up with Merlin on Christmas Eve?”

Arthur chucks a pillow at a smirking Merlin before protesting, “I’m not!” He has no idea how he lost control of this conversation so quickly.

“I should think not,” Morgana says. “He’s far too good for you. I was only saying that to Leon the other night. You should hang onto him.”

“There is no relationship to break up,” Arthur yells – he hasn’t eaten or had coffee yet and this is all really too much for him. He just wants everything to go back to normal, like it was an hour ago.

“Oh, so you’ve just been leading him on then?”

Morgana is the devil. She must be. There’s no other reason for the sheer delight she takes in his misery. And Merlin is no better. Arthur watches as he rolls on the bed, shaking with laughter, a pillow pressed to his face to muffle the noise. The best thing Arthur can think to do is ignore all that and come back to the reason he called in the first place. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know why father thinks Merlin and I are...” he tails off, unsure quite how best to phrase it.

“Having a big gay romance,” Leon suggests.

And Arthur regrets ever introducing his sister to his best friend. She’s corrupted him completely. 

“I thought you said there was no relationship?”

Arthur ignores the muffled snort from Merlin’s direction and focuses on his sister. She’s using that overly casual tone that always indicates guilt. “There isn’t. But somehow Father has got it into his head that there is, and he’s _happy_ about it.”

“Well, that’s good, surely? Now we can all stop pretending.”

Something heavy drops in Arthur’s stomach, and he sees the way Merlin pulls away the pillow in interest. Morgana’s not wrong, but she’s _not_ supposed to know that.

“What did you tell him?” 

“Nothing,” she says, in a tone that means _everything_ , and more.

Arthur rubs his face tiredly. “Leon?” he tries, hoping some element of friendly obligation remains.

“Sorry, mate, I’m going to have to plead the fifth on this one.”

“This isn’t Law & Order,” Arthur snaps, and then feels guilty because Leon really isn’t the target of his wrath. “Morgana, we _are_ going to talk about this when you get here. I can’t believe I have to have this conversation with Father, and on Christmas Eve, for fuck’s sake.”

“Arthur,” she tries, but he’s having none of it.

“Do you get some kind of sick pleasure out of fucking with my life? Really, I want to know? What could you possibly hope to get out of this?”

“To see you happy, maybe?” Morgana’s tone is sharp, and it’s clear she’s rattled. “Look, we’re about to set off, and I’m not having this conversation in the car. I’ll see you later.”

And ends the call.

“Fuck!”

All trace of amusement has now left Merlin’s face. “Are you okay?” he asks.

 _Okay?_ Arthur doesn’t even know where to begin describing how he feels right at that moment. He’s angry, mostly. At Morgana, for always interfering because she thinks she knows best, and for invariably being right. At Merlin, a little, because he can’t even begin to understand how not okay this is. At his father, for welcoming Merlin with open arms, when Gwen, the one Arthur’d married to meet all those expectations, had barely been tolerated. Of course, Uther had eventually proved right about her, but that was beside the point. And mainly, mainly he’s angry at himself for being such a fucking coward, for never having the courage to take what he wanted, and for all those years of being afraid – which were apparently a complete waste of fucking time.

“No, Merlin,” he says finally. “I’m not okay.” Arthur flops down on the bed himself and stares at the stark white ceiling above. “I’m gay,” he says, trying the words out for the first time.

Merlin remains silent, but Arthur can feel the weight of his stare. It’s all he can feel, though, because the rest of him is numb.

“I’m gay,” Arthur repeats, a little more certainly this time. And when the sky doesn’t fall in, he lets out a sharp laugh. “I’ve wasted the last twenty odd years pretending to be something I’m not. All to make someone else happy. And it turns out he doesn’t give a toss who I sleep with. How pathetic is that?”

Merlin clearly judges this to be a rhetorical question – his only response, the warm press of his hand against Arthur’s forearm.

“And now,” Arthur continues, “as if that isn’t ridiculous enough, I have to go downstairs and explain to my father that although, yes, I am indeed a giant poof, I am not, in fact, engaged in some _big gay romance_ with you.”

“What if you don’t?” Merlin sits upright on the bed and twists to meet Arthur’s gaze. 

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t have that conversation with him.”

Arthur rubs tiredly at his face – if only he could wake up and find this was all a bad dream. “So, what, we just lie to him for the next four days?”

Merlin shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s ideal, or that I relish lying to your dad. But you said yourself that he’s happy, and Morgana says he’s been worried about you ever since Gwen and Lance’s wed—”

“That’s none of her business. Or yours.” Arthur knows he’s been out of sorts recently. Not because he’s angry at Gwen and Lance anymore – he’ll never forgive how she went about it, but he can admit to himself that she did deserve to have someone who loved her completely. Mostly, he’s just jealous that they get to have the future that he never had the courage to go after for himself. Until now...maybe.

“It wouldn’t work,” he says, but the certainty is missing from his voice.

“Why not? Morgana would back us up – she can hardly not – and you know Leon will—”

“Do as he’s told?” Arthur can’t help but crack a smile.

“If he knows what’s good for him.” And Merlin gives Arthur a matching grin. “Look, your dad’s happy about it, and telling him the truth will probably just make things really awkward for all of us. I mean, what if he starts hating me again now I’m no longer a future son-in-law?”

“Son-in-Law?” Arthur questions, brow arched. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“I’m a catch.” Merlin bats his lashes in an exaggerated fashion. “You’d be lucky to have me.” And Arthur can’t help but agree, even if he’s not sure he’ll ever say it out loud.

“So,” Merlin continues, “why not just let it lie? Just till we’re back in London, and then we can break in some dramatic fashion that absolutely is _not_ my fault.”

“Oh, I see, it’s your idea but I’m the one who ends up looking like a bastard. Charming.”

“You’d pull off _bastard_ better.” He gets to his feet and grabs one bundle of towels from the bed. “You’re clearly the ‘rakish lord of the manor’ in this story, while I’m the naive and innocent chambermaid.”

Arthur laughs, he really can’t help himself. Merlin might be crazy, but he certainly knows how to cheer someone up. “Merlin, when we get back home, you and I are going to have a serious conversation about your reading habits.”

“Blame my mum. She’s the Mills and Boon fan in the family. Now,” he launches the towels in Arthur’s direction, “hurry up in the bathroom. I need to make sure I look presentable for the in-laws!”

*****

Despite claiming their departure around mid morning, the sun has long since set in the sky by the time Morgana and Leon arrive at Albion Hall. Arthur initially suspects a lie to avoid their earlier, awkward conversation, but the multitude of shopping bags that Leon retrieves from the boot soon set him straight.

Uther greets them first, a warm shake of Leon’s free hand, and a slightly stiff hug for Morgana – their relationship has always been bit fraught. 

Merlin’s next in line, while Arthur lingers behind. Things might be working out better than expected – Arthur had spent a pleasant, if somewhat awkward afternoon with his father and Merlin, while they bonded over a shared love of baking, of all things – but Morgana was far from forgiven. He knows he’ll cave eventually, he always does and he doesn’t want to spoil Christmas, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to let it go just yet.

Hands still in pockets, he gives her a nod. “Morgana.”

“Arthur,” she returns, equally as reserved. But he’s known her long enough to recognise the uncertainty in her gaze.

While Leon gratefully shares his burden with Merlin, and Uther tries to corral his excitable dogs, Arthur and Morgana watch each other carefully. She opens her mouth, never able to hold back for long, but is silenced by a sharp shake of Arthur’s head.

“Not now,” he says, low but firm. 

He turns then and spots Leon watching warily. Arthur nods again – he’s not ready to scratch the wound just yet. 

“Come on,” he says finally, “You must be starving after the long day you’ve had.” Arthur gestures to Leon’s bags.

Something like relief passes Leon’s face. “Mate, you don’t know the half of it.”

Arthur doesn’t, but he knows enough about his sister to hazard a guess. “Father’s not long taken some mince pies out of the oven – I’m sure he won’t mind you tucking in.”

“Uther baked?”

Arthur experienced much the same reaction to his seeing his father elbow-deep in flour earlier, so he understands Morgana’s tone. 

“Apparently,” he replies, and doesn’t hold back a smile this time. Some things are just too bizarre not to share.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Morgana obviously decides this means that she’s forgiven. So she links her arm through his and they follow the others into the house.

“So how did Uther take it?” she asks quietly.

“Take what?” Arthur frowns and almost trips as one of the dogs decides to cut in front of him.

“You and Merlin? You know, not being the _hot, new couple?_ ” 

“Ah,” Arthur runs his free hand through his hair while he searches for the words, “we didn’t exactly tell him.” The broad grin that covers Morgana’s face has him quickly adding, “It’s not what you think.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“We aren’t together,” he says, with a wary look at the others ahead. “We’ve just decided it would be less awkward to pretend till we get home.”

Morgana’s expression clearly calls bullshit. “Less awkward to pretend that _you_ , a straight man,” Arthur can hear the quotation marks around those words. “are in a serious relationship with your best friend, who also happens to be your assistant?”

No one arches an eyebrow quite like Morgana, and Arthur doesn’t need her to elaborate further – he gets the point, but he’s really not in the mood to be analysed.

“Don’t push it. You’re still on very thin ice.”

Morgana leans in and pecks a quick kiss to his cheek. “Whatever you say, brother dearest.” And then she’s off, in a flurry of silk skirts and shiny curls.

Arthur remains in the hallway for a moment, savouring the brief respite, and also cursing her for the scarlet lips he just knows she has left on his cheek.

*****

It’s late by the time they drag themselves upstairs to bed. Arthur’s not sure what time exactly, but it was nearly 1am the last time he’d looked at a clock. Uther had cried off sometime earlier, citing a need to get the turkey in early – Arthur still can’t quite believe his father is planning to cook Christmas dinner, when the most he’s ever seen him cook before tonight is toast.

Morgana and Leon, however, had been only too happy to sit up with a few bottles of wine, and then a few more. Something that Arthur is sure they’ll all pay the price for in the morning.

“Morgana’s great,” Merlin says decidedly as they enter what Arthur is now thinking of as _their_ room. “I can’t believe you took so long to introduce us.”

Personally, Arthur still regrets the day he set the wheels of this slightly terrifying friendship in motion, but wisely remains silent. 

Merlin kicks off his shoes, which end up God knows where, and flops on the bed. His grin is sloppy as he meets Arthur’s gaze. “I’m glad your dad invited me for Christmas.”

“So am I, Merlin.” And it’s true. Arthur already can’t imagine what Christmas would be like without him there – or doesn’t want to at any rate.

“Even if it’s because he thinks we’re shagging.” Merlin wriggles on the bed for a moment, until his head reaches the pillows, and then lets out a contented sigh.

Arthur pulls his jumper free over his head just as he spots Merlin’s eyes drifting closed. “Hey!” He aims the jumper so it lands fully on Merlin’s face. “Don’t fall asleep there.”

“Too much wine,” Merlin mutters, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

“All the more reason to get up and brush your teeth.”

Merlin cracks one eye and pouts. “Spoilsport.”

“Well,” Arthur replies, toeing off one shoe then the other, “if you want a mouth that tastes like—”

“I’m going,” Merlin interrupts. “Stop nagging.” He grabs a towel off the nearby chair and heads to the en-suite.

“And drink some water,” Arthur shouts after him.

He turns then to his own sleeping arrangements. Their room does have a lovely king size bed, and there’s a quiet, rarely acknowledged part of Arthur that would love nothing more than to curl up under the duvet with Merlin. But this isn’t real. It’s only a charade to fool his father, something that ends the minute they leave on Thursday. So he ruthlessly stamps out even the faintest spark of feelings that he knows have been growing for some time now – anything else was too much of a risk.

Fortunately, guest suites at Albion Hall are a cut above the average spare room, so Arthur has a better choice than the floor. He hurriedly clears their clutter from the sofa and then turns to the armoire in search of extra bedding – he wants to be sorted before Merlin returns and brings potential awkwardness with him. Fortunately, the sofa is long and firm enough that his back should survive a few nights on there.

“What are you doing?” Merlin emerges from the bathroom, dressed in what look like the cosiest of pyjamas. 

Arthur pauses, midway across the room, duvet and pillows in hand – this is what he’d hoped to avoid. “Getting ready for bed,” he says, though even to his ears there’s a hint of question to it.

“You can’t sleep on the floor.” Merlin sounds horrified at the prospect. “I mean, it’s a lovely carpet and all,” Arthur sees his bare toes curl into the pile, “but your back won’t—”

“Relax.” Arthur learnt a long time ago that it’s wise to head Merlin off before he builds up steam. “I’m taking the sofa.”

“But you can’t do that!” Merlin actually sounds vaguely upset at the prospect. “This is your home. I don’t mi—”

“You’re a guest, Merlin,” Arthur says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Get into bed.”

Merlin turns to look at the bed but then back to Arthur. “Look, it’s a huge bed; why can’t we just share? It’s not like we have to worry about anyone getting the wrong idea.”

The bed certainly does look inviting, and the prospect of Merlin in it even more so, but Arthur just doesn’t—

“Come on, I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Merlin gives an impish grin, tugs back the duvet, and pats the bed invitingly.

“Fine.” Arthur offloads his bedding onto the sofa. “But make sure you keep your cold feet to yourself.”

Merlin just grins and hops into bed, while Arthur heads into the bathroom. By the time _he’s_ ready for bed, Arthur wishes very much that he had something more than just the usual t-shirt and boxers to sleep in – but then, he hadn’t planned on having company when he’d packed.

Merlin’s already snuggled down under the covers by the time Arthur emerges, burrowed into the pillows and looking entirely too at home for Arthur’s peace of mind. He flicks off the main light and crosses the room carefully in the darkness. He’s got the duvet in hand and one knee on the bed when—

“What are you doing?”

Arthur’s stomach clenches. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbles. Then grabs a pillow and turns to the sofa.

Merlin’s hand snakes out from under the duvet and grabs his wrist. “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant the light.”

Arthur’s confused. It’s dark so Merlin can’t see his expression, but his hesitancy must give it away.

“You’ve left the en-suite light on. I can see it under the door.”

Sure enough there is the faintest glow around the door. Barely noticeable to Arthur, but apparently an issue nonetheless. He huffs as he goes to turn it off, and then swears as he catches his foot on one of Merlin’s abandoned shoes on the way back.

“High maintenance,” he mutters, as he climbs into bed for the second time.

“But worth it, “Merlin replies smugly.

“That,” Arthur says, whilst adjusting his pillows, “remains to be seen.” He then settles down under the covers and allows himself to enjoy the unmistakeable sensation of another warm body so close to his own. 

Wine always has a soporific effect on him, so almost instantly Arthur feels himself drifting off. But then his eyes are open wide. “I knew it!”

“What?” Merlin grumbles.

“You’re feet are bloody freezing!”

Merlin only laughs in response, and tucks his feet further under Arthur’s calf. “Hurry up and warm then, then.

*****

It’s early when Arthur wakes. Daylight is barely creeping in around the curtain’s edges, and he can feel the chill of a winter frost in the air. He’s never been one for lying abed once his sleep is broken, so he eases himself out from under the covers, careful not to disturb Merlin who is still peacefully slumbering – only the top of his head visible above the duvet.

He tugs on his discarded hoodie for warmth, before padding across to the bathroom in search of a cure for his dry mouth and fuzzy head. A glass of water and two aspirin later, Arthur heads back out into the room, bearing the same _cure_ for Merlin. He sets it down carefully on the nightstand, pausing only a moment to admire the dark sweep of Merlin’s lashes against his pale cheeks – Morgana pays good money for lashes like that. He doesn’t linger though, he’s not sure what sort of excuse he could offer were Merlin to wake and find him there, so he turns away before the temptation to just _touch_ becomes too much.

The air is crisp and chilly, and the light has that weird glow that usually means snow. Arthur loves snow, _really_ loves it, and the idea of a white Christmas is just too perfect, so he draws the curtains back hopefully. There’s no snow, sadly, but it is white out – Jack Frost has done his work well.

“It’s beautiful.” Arthur jumps a little, because he hadn’t heard Merlin get up, much less cross the room until he is all but pressed against Arthur’s back. “Like a Christmas card.”

“I was hoping for snow,” Arthur admits ruefully. He takes a moment to enjoy Merlin’s presence, before he turns round. “You’re cold,” he says, as Merlin wraps his arms around himself. “Put something warmer on, or get back into bed.”

“Yes, Mum.” Merlin grins, but hops back into bed nonetheless. “You’re up early,” he says, plumping the pillows behind to prop him up.

“I never sleep well in a strange bed. And once I’m awake...” Arthur tails off with a shrug.

“Get back in,” Merlin suggests, as he pulls the duvet back invitingly. Then adds, “My feet are cold,” with a grin.

“Then I’ll definitely pass.” Arthur laughs. “You can keep those blocks of ice to yourself.”

“So cruel.” Merlin pouts.

Arthur just smiles at his antics, and resolutely ignores the sudden and surprising urge to kiss that pout right off Merlin’s face. Instead, he crouches down at Merlin’s side of the bed, and rummages in a bag he’d left there the night before.

“What are you doing?” Merlin looks at Arthur knelt at the side of the bed with wide eyes.

Arthur frowns at first, but then realises the picture he makes – on his knees at the side of Merlin, with a small box in his hand. “Idiot,” he says, and reaches out to ruffle Merlin’s already messy hair. “I’ve no intention of making an honest man out of you.” He holds out the carefully wrapped box. “I just wanted to give you this now.”

“I thought we were doing presents with everyone later? I put mine down under the tree.”

Arthur can feel the telltale heat of a flush on his cheeks. “Yes, we are. But I wanted to give you this where people, mainly Morgana, couldn’t read a million other things into it. Although,” he huffs a laugh here, “that ship’s pretty much sailed by now.”

Arthur watches as Merlin’s long fingers begin to peel off the wrapping paper oh-so-carefully. He’s always been more of a _rip it off_ sort of person himself – he’s not sure how people can bear the suspense.

“Oh Arthur.” Merlin runs his fingers reverentially over the face of the vintage watch he finds inside the velvet box. 

It’s almost identical to the one that Merlin had once described his father owning -- the only possession he’d left behind before vanishing from his family without explanation. The original was long ago sold to pay bills, but Arthur wanted Merlin to have the next best thing. He’d reached out to Merlin’s Uncle Gaius, and eventually a photo was produced where the watch could be seen, and a couple of months later one of Arthur’s contacts had managed to track one down in an Edinburgh auction house. It had cost a little more than Arthur usually spent on his assistants for Christmas, but Merlin has been much more than assistant for quite some time now, and the expression on his face makes it worth all the effort and expense.

“Where did you...” Merlin shakes his head as he rubs the leather strap between his fingers. “It looks just the same.” He looks up at Arthur, wide eyed, and for a moment Arthur thinks there are tears in his eyes. But it’s just a trick of the light.

He’s still not expecting it when Merlin throws back the duvet and pulls him into a tight hug. The warm press of Merlin’s body against his, and the tickle of breath against his neck from murmured words of gratitude, are more than reward enough for Arthur’s troubles. He wants nothing more than to climb back into bed and tug Merlin in with him, but he pulls back before the temptation becomes too much, even for his well-practised self control.

“We can get it adjusted if we need to,” he says, watching as Merlin’s fingers fasten the leather around his pale wrist.

“It’s perfect.” Merlin can’t seem to take his eyes off it, but eventually does lean back against the pillows. “I have something for you, too,” he admits with a grin.

Arthur hadn’t expected that. “Really?”

“Yep.” Merlin nods. “I mean, you’ve kind of put it to shame now, with this.” He waggles his wrist, before adding, “It’s in that bag over there.”

“I’ll fetch it shall I, Master?” Arthur mock tugs his forelock.

Merlin just laughs. “Idiot.”

Arthur retrieves the soft, squishy package from the depths of Merlin’s bag, and tears into the paper without delay. “It’s a Christmas jumper,” he says, and shakes out a maroon garment with a giant Christmas tree on it, complete with pompom baubles.

“It’s a family tradition,” Merlin explains as he gets out of bed and crosses the room over to Arthur. “We all wear them on Christmas day back at home.” He reaches and presses a spot at the top of the tree – which then lights up. “Look!”

Arthur gives a wry smile – he can’t quite believe he’s going to wear this, but when the alternative is hurting Merlin’s feelings, there’s no alternative at all. “Good luck getting Morgana into one.”

“Oh, it was her idea.” Merlin beams, and Arthur thinks _of course it was._ “As soon as I mentioned it she thought it was great; we’ve even got ones for the dogs.”

“That I have to see.” Arthur puts the jumper down on the nearby dresser. “Thank you. It’s great.”

“Aren’t you going to put it on?”

“It’s a bit early to go downstairs yet.” Arthur glances at the clock. “It’s not even 8 yet, and there’s no way Morgana will be out of bed before 9.”

“I was thinking we could go for a bit of a walk this morning. I didn’t get a chance to see outside properly yesterday, and I bet the dogs would like to come with us.” Merlin looks at Arthur hopefully, and then, as if sensing Arthur’s reluctance, pulls out his ace card. “It’s what me and Mum normally do before we open presents.”

And how can he say no to that? 

Ten minutes later, Arthur dresses in his new jumper, and waits by the door, coat in hand. Merlin might have been the one to suggest their early morning promenade, but that doesn’t make him any quicker. Arthur waits, patiently for once – God help him, he’s starting to find Merlin’s tardiness endearing.

Finally, Merlin’s ready, and he meets Arthur by the door, where he proceeds to pull a woolly hat down over Arthur’s head. “Keep your ears warm,” Merlin says with a grin.

“ _My_ ears?” Arthur asks with a grin of his own.

“Oh, shut up, you.” Merlin pokes Arthur in the ribs. “You’re not allowed to be mean on Christmas.” Then, before Arthur has time to tug on his coat, Merlin has his phone out and snaps a quick picture of him, Christmas jumper, woolly hat, and all. “Something for the break room notice board,” he explains.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and he aims for stern, really he does.

It clearly fails though, because Merlin just shoves his phone back in his pocket and strolls out of the door.

*****

They arrive back at the house just as the old grandfather clock strikes 9am. Their noses cold and cheeks pink from the crisp morning air. The dogs had thoroughly enjoyed themselves too, although Arthur makes a mental note not to let them off their leads next time – thank goodness Merlin seemed to be some sort of dog whisperer, or they’d have never got back for breakfast.

And talking of breakfast, the smell of bacon has reached as far as the entrance hall. Arthur swears he hears Merlin’s stomach growl as they make their way to the kitchen, however much he tries to blame it on Winston.

Despite Merlin’s earlier assurances, Arthur is still surprised to find Morgana sporting a Christmas jumper of her very own. Black, with holly wrapped candy canes over it, and definitely much less gaudy than the number Arthur’s currently wearing, but a Christmas jumper nonetheless.

She’s perched on the worktop watching Leon wield a frying pan with surprising ease – no jumper for Leon, just a questionably festive apron that Arthur sincerely hopes isn’t his father’s. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says, pressing a kiss to Morgana’s cheek. He reaches over and pats Leon on the shoulder, not wanting to disturb his progress. “Smells amazing.”

Morgana reaches out and presses his jumper, setting the lights twinkling. She turns to share a grin with Merlin, while Arthur scowls. 

“Where’s yours?” he asks Leon accusingly, keen to share the embarrassment. 

Leon tugs at the apron. “Didn’t want to get fat on it,” he says, and deftly flips a couple of fried eggs onto the waiting plate. “Merlin, can you do me a favour and grab the black pudding from the Aga?” Then turns back to Arthur. “Put these on the table.”

Arthur turns to find the kitchen table has already been laid out for them. “We’re eating in here?”

Leon nods. “It’s a bit less formal. Besides, the dining room is already laid up for lunch.”

Arthur places the eggs on the warmer and takes a moment to admire the table. The kitchen table is certainly more casual than they’re used to, but breakfast is still up to its usual standards. 

“Where’s Father?” he asks, suddenly realising they are one short.

“Phone call,” says Morgana, as snags a piece of bacon. “I think it’s Agravaine.”

Arthur scowls. Agravaine might be his mother’s only remaining family, but Arthur can’t stand the man. He’ll never forgive the way he arranged for Arthur to _discover_ Gwen and Lance together, instead of just telling him the truth. But he can sense Merlin looking at him curiously, and he doesn’t want to spoil Christmas, so he shakes it off.

“I suppose we should wait then,” is all he says in response.

“No need!”

Uther strides into the kitchen just as they are all taking their seats. The sight of his father, of all people, resplendent in his Christmas jumper improves Arthur’s mood drastically. Admittedly, it’s a fairly tame Fair Isle number, but by his father’s usual standards, it’s akin to dripping in tinsel and baubles.

When finally Leon joins them – strips off his apron and takes his seat – Uther raises his tea cup in front of him. “Merry Christmas, Everyone,” he toasts. 

Arthur and the others follow suit, proffering similar greetings, before falling to the serious business of food.

“These sausages are amazing.”

“Venison,” Uther explains. “They’re from the estate.” The hint of pride in his voice is obvious.

“You have deer here?” Merlin asks, wide eyed. “How come we never saw any this morning?” 

“It’s a big park, Merlin. It would take days to see it all.”

“Maybe you could take Merlin up to the stables tomorrow?” Morgana suggests. “You’d see much more on horseback.”

Arthur chews thoughtfully for a moment, because it’s not a bad idea. He hasn’t ridden for ages, and Merlin would probably love it. Only he spots Morgana grinning at Merlin, who is shaking his head at her in return. “Maybe,” is all he says in the end.

“How was your walk this morning?” Uther enquires.

“Good,” Arthur says, pausing for a gulp of coffee. “We just went down the path as far as Albion. Saw Mrs Harris heading into church.”

“Oh? How was she?”

“Singing your praises for giving her Christmas off.” He pauses then and shares a quick grin with Merlin. “A bit worried you’re going to burn down the kitchen in her absence though.”

“Cheek of the woman,” Uther grumbles. “It wasn’t me that _caramelised_ the carrots last year.”

Arthur can’t help but reflect on how much more relaxed the meal is than the usual Christmas breakfasts of his memory. At one point he spots Uther slipping bacon under the table to the waiting dogs beneath, something that was a capital offence under normal circumstances. And Morgana has appeared bare-faced, something she would never do unless with family. Which speaks volumes for her acceptance of Merlin’s place at the table. He quietly eats his fill, ignores Morgana’s pointed look when he reaches for another sausage, and just lets the atmosphere wash over him. Truth be told, he mostly watches Merlin – he knows Morgana has noticed, but it’s Christmas, and if he can’t do it now, when can he?

When the meal is finished, and the remaining scraps are donated to the dogs, they make their way into drawing room where the presents are laid out.

“The washing up can wait,” says Uther, and that’s when Arthur knows he’s definitely wandered into some kind of alternate reality.

“Arthur, wait for a moment, would you?”

Arthur watches the others head into the drawing room and then turns back to face his father. “Is everything okay?” His mind automatically goes to that call from Agravaine, because nothing good ever comes from that man being involved.

“Yes, yes, it’s all fine. I just wanted to say, about Merlin.” Uther pauses for a moment, and Arthur knows he’s just searching for the right words. “You look happy,” he says finally. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more content and relaxed than you are now. He’s obviously good for you.”

“He is, Father,” Arthur says, because after all the lies he owes him this much honesty at least.

“I realise I could have been more accepting of Guinevere—”

“It’s fine, honestly.” Because that’s the last thing Arthur wants to be thinking about, especially now Gwen is remarried, and Arthur...well, he’s not sure yet, but he _hopes._

Uther nods and doesn’t push further, but there’s an uncomfortable look on his face and Arthur can tell he’s not done. “I am sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me...about Merlin.”

Arthur hears what his father can’t quite say, and has to ask, “You really don’t mind?” Because he still isn’t quite convinced.

“If you’d asked me two weeks ago, I believe I’d have given a different answer,” Uther admits honestly. “But a blind man can see how happy you two are – what kind of father would I be if I objected to that?” Uther pats him on the shoulder then, and without waiting for Arthur to respond, says, “Come on, we’d better get in there. You know how Leon gets if we make him wait.”

*****

When Arthur gets to the drawing room, he finds Leon and Morgana trying to get wriggling spaniels into their jumpers. Leon appears to have drawn the shortest straw and is all but wrestling with Winston, who seems to have inherited all the bullishness of his namesake. Monty, on the other hand, takes one look at Morgana’s _I mean business_ face and obviously decides that following orders is the wisest course of action.

Missions finally complete, the dogs scarper from their captors and bundle in Arthur’s direction. He drops into a crouch and begins making a fuss of them. He’d longed for a dog as a child, but his father hadn’t been keen initially. And by the time he’d mellowed to the idea, Arthur was already at boarding school, and had had to content with Morgana’s cat, which, whilst admittedly cute, wasn’t quite as satisfying a pet.

He looks up from Monty’s silky belly to find Merlin smiling back at him. 

“I didn’t know you were a dog person,” he says.

Arthur shrugs. “The flat’s not an ideal place to keep one.”

“You could always get a small one, like Elena’s,” Morgana suggests – though her expression says she already knows Arthur’s thoughts on that.

“That’s not a dog; it’s barely even a rat.”

The door opens then, and Uther enters, bearing the cup of tea he’d gone in search of. Arthur still can’t believe that Merlin managed to coax him into a Christmas jumper – he just seems to have the magic touch where Uther is concerned.

Leon finds himself nominated ‘Santa’ and assumes a spot, cross-legged, by the base of the tree. The others squat down around him, while Uther settles in a wing back chair by the fire place, overseeing activities.

Morgana opens a present first – it’s just easier that way. It’s perfume from Arthur. She nods approvingly, but given that she’d issued them all with a list of pre-approved presents beforehand, that’s hardly surprising. 

Uther opens a cook book from Merlin, which he’s delighted with. Merlin flushes at the praise, and leaves Arthur wondering how on earth he had the knowledge or time to get it. 

Leon’s next with a new Harlequins shirt from Morgana – the resulting thank you kiss is a bit more than anyone needs to see that close to breakfast. Uther clears his throat in the end.

Merlin unwraps a copy of Obama’s auto-biography from Arthur and smiles happily as he leafs through the first few pages. Arthur second guesses his choice when he sees his father side-eyeing the book, but fortunately he manages to keep his thoughts on _liberal_ politicians to himself.

Leon digs under the tree again in search of a gift for Arthur. He emerges with an envelope in hand. “This one’s for you and Merlin.”

Uther sits upright in his chair as Arthur takes the envelope from Leon. “There’s one for you and Morgana under there, too,” he says. “You should probably open them at the same time.”

Arthur shares a look of confusion with Merlin while Leon digs deeper this time. He emerges again, dusting pine needles from his jumper and passes the envelope to Morgana, who already has her hand out. He slides a finger under the seal and rips it open. Whatever it was he’d been expecting to find, it certainly wasn’t two plane tickets to France. He hands them over to Merlin who is craning his neck to get a look.

“Plane tickets?” Merlin says, confusion clear in his voice.

Uther looks suitably pleased at the reaction and settles back comfortably in his chair. “I’ve rented a chalet for you – I thought you might like to show Merlin where we used to have our family holidays.”

It’s a lovely gesture, and Arthur loves to ski, so he thanks his father warmly. Merlin looks a little stunned, but gives Uther a warm smile nonetheless.

“This is amazing. Thank you so much.”

“And don’t any of you worry about time off work,” Uther says. “I happen to know the boss will be very flexible.”

They all laugh following this, and Merlin takes the chance of the distraction to whisper, “I can’t ski. What would I even wear?”

Fortunately, Morgana has ears like a bat, and instructs Leon to pass over a large present with Merlin’s name on it. “That should solve one of your problems,” she says with a knowing smirk, and when Merlin reveals a new ski jacket and snow pants, Arthur realises this holiday is more of a surprise to some than others.

There’s a bit of a theme to the presents after that, warm socks, hats, jumpers, and a pair of Oakley goggles for Arthur that he’s been coveting for a while. Then there’s gloves, scarves, thermals, and a new Barbour for Uther, and a quick glance sideways tells Arthur that Merlin is feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. He doesn’t know how to tell him that no one expects him to have spent a lot in return without causing offence. He needs to make Merlin see that it’s just a sign that they view him as part of the family.

By the time they’re done, and the dogs are rolling around in a mound of paper (their own presents discarded at the side), it’s mid morning. Uther excuses himself to check on the turkey, and Morgana decides it’s time to start drinking again, now that her head has cleared, and Arthur agrees. 

Merlin excuses himself to call his mother, and Arthur thinks nothing of it when he hears the front door close. It’s only when he’s on his second drink and Merlin still hasn’t returned that he becomes a little concerned. He makes his excuses to Morgana and heads outside. He finds Merlin just outside the front doors, staring out over the garden down to the reservoir. The phone is clutched in his hand, call clearly over, but when he turns at the sound of Arthur’s feet on the gravel drive, it’s clear from his expression that he’s upset.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur asks, thoughts quickly jumping to Merlin’s uncle. “Did your mother—”

Merlin gives a sharp shake of his head. “They’re fine. Uncle Gaius is feeling a little better today, in fact.”

“That’s good.” Arthur nods. “Are _you_?”

“How can I be?” Merlin blurts out. “I just...all those presents from your dad. I feel like I got them under false pretences. It’s bad enough he invited me here, now he’s bought us a _holiday_!”

“He thought you might like to go skiing,” Arthur says, like it’s that simple, because it is to him.

“I would,” Merlin snaps. “But that’s really not the point. He wouldn’t have thought about what I’d like for Christmas at all if he knew who I really was.”

“And who’s that?” Morgana asks, her tone arched. Because of course she has cracked open the drawing room window and is leant on the sill. Keeping her nose out has never been Morgana’s strong point.

“Not now.” Arthur turns to give a pointed look, but it’s a wasted effort.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Morgana continues, warming to her subject. “He got your presents because he can see you make Arthur happy. Whether you’re shagging or not, that’s still true. So just accept it with a good grace. Because, Merlin, if you don’t, when we get to Meribel, I’m going to push you down a black run on your first go.”

Before either can reply, Leon’s head appears alongside of his wife’s. “Sorry about this,” he says, and then tugs her inside. Even once the window is closed, they can hear him paying the price.

There’s an awkward silence in the wake of Morgana’s departure. Arthur really wishes his family would stop exposing his feelings in such a blunt manner, but Morgana’s actions the last time had worked out thus far, so maybe he should just go with it? He digs his toe in the gravel as he gathers together his courage. Finally, with a deep breath, he faces Merlin.

“She’s right you know?” he says.

“About what?” Arthur’s never noticed the way Merlin’s nose crinkles a little when he frowns.

Here goes nothing, or maybe everything, Arthur thinks, and says, “You _do_ make me happy,” before his courage fails him.

Whatever Merlin might have said to that, good or bad, is lost because Uther chooses that exact moment to open the drawing room window himself, and beg Merlin’s assistance in the kitchen.

Arthur watches him go, and makes a mental note to nail that bloody window shut.

*****

Arthur finally pushes his plate away from him, steadfastly ignoring the last sliver of plum pudding on his plate. He’s already eaten far too much food, and if it weren’t for Merlin’s presence at his side, he’d be inclined to pop the button on his trousers to gain a little more room. A glance around the table tells him everyone else is suffering the after effects of gluttony too, with the exception of Merlin. Who, considering how much Arthur has seen him eat, must surely have hollow legs.

Arthur removes the napkin from his lap and places it on the table. “Well, Father,” he says, “I’m impressed. Even Mrs Harris would be hard pressed to top that meal.” He raises his wine glass up. “Three cheers for the chef!”

Everyone joins in, even the dogs bark along, and Arthur has never seen his father look so pleased. 

They stand, one-by-one. Merlin goes to stack the plates, clearly intent on cleaning up, so Arthur reaches out a hand to still his movements.

“Leave that,” he says. “It’s almost time for the Queen’s speech.”

Merlin says nothing, but his expression clearly says _seriously?_

“Trust me, attendance is mandatory. And lateness is a sin rarely forgiven.”

Merlin clearly takes Arthur’s warning on board, as he grabs his glass from the table and gestures towards the door. “You’d better lead the way.”

They gather again in the drawing room, and while Uther takes command of the remote, Leon does the rounds refilling everyone’s glasses.

“You know, I’ve never watched this before,” Merlin admits.

Arthur’s not surprised, but he looks warily at his father to see how this confession has gone down. Uther, of course, looks suitably horrified at this, so Arthur can only hope that Merlin keeps his more _republican_ sensibilities to himself.

“Unless you count watching The Crown,” Merlin continues, and Arthur winces, because he’s very aware of his father’s thoughts on that particular programme. Morgana is too.

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” she says, swirling her wine glass and shooting a quick glance in Uther’s direction.

Merlin sees that look and seems to realise he’s found himself in the midst of a minefield. “My mum used to watch it with her parents,” he says, as a sort of peace offering.

“Well, it’s time you continued the tradition then.” Uther gives a look of warning in Morgana’s direction, but she’s already moved on. 

“Did you know Arthur went to school with Prince Harry, Merlin?”

“Really?” Merlin turns sharply in his direction, and Arthur’s not blind to the interest in his eyes. For someone who wants to do away with the Royal family, Merlin makes a very big exception for Harry.

“Yes,” Arthur admits reluctantly. “He was the year above me.”

“But you do _know_ him?” 

“You’re out of luck, Merlin. I’m pretty sure he’s already found his princess.”

Merlin’s cheeks turn a little pink, but he laughs, tucks his arm through Arthur’s and says, “So have I.”

The music starts then, and silence descends, and apart from the odd approving noise from Uther, it stays that way until the end. But Arthur knows they’re not done yet, so knows better than to break the silence.

“Wonderful woman,” Uther says, as he gets to his feet. “The Queen,” he says loudly, glass held aloft.

The rest of them rise as one, Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s elbow to drag him along. Merlin’s definitely a little confused by this behaviour, but Uther’s a royalist through and through.

After the toast is over, and Uther has made some more approving observations about duty and service, and how Prince Charles can’t hope to hold a candle to his mother, they’re finally _released_.

As they make their way out of the drawing room, Merlin turns to Arthur. “I can’t believe I’ve just watched that. I’ll be kicked out of Plaid Cymru if they find out about it back home.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see his father’s expression and how hard he is biting his tongue. “Never mind, Merlin,” Arthur can’t help teasing. “There’s always room in the Conservatives. Isn’t there, Father?”

Everyone laughs, and even Uther cracks a smile. “I’m not sure they would be quite Merlin’s speed,” he says, and yet again Arthur is stunned by how hard is father is trying.

Uther cries off then, citing calls to be made. Leon and Arthur have _volunteered_ for washing up duties, so Morgana filches another bottle of wine and drags Merlin in the direction of the billiards room, offering to teach him how to play. An offer which makes Arthur fear for the future of his father’s pristine baize.

Merlin casts a quick _help me_ look over his shoulder when it becomes clear Morgana is not accepting no for an answer, but a pile of washing up awaits him, so Merlin is on his own.

*****

It’s about 10pm by the time they head upstairs. It’s earlier than usual, but Merlin has been trying to hide his yawns for the past hour and obviously didn’t feel comfortable being the first one to leave alone.

Arthur hears a burst of laughter from Morgana and Leon drift up the stairs after him, and even though he didn’t hear what preceded it, he can feel a flush on his cheeks at what was undoubtedly some remark about him and Merlin having an _early night_. But it’s nice to get Merlin alone. He hasn’t managed to do so since his awkward confession outside earlier, and though he’s caught plenty of thoughtful glances coming his way, he still doesn’t _know_ what Merlin thinks. There’s an awful dread in the pit of his stomach that this could all be for nothing, that he’s exposed himself to his family, bared his heart as much as he knows how, and Merlin might still be just a _good friend_. Arthur knows, if that’s the case, he’ll bury it down somewhere deep, and keep being Merlin’s friend, his boss – but at what cost? He’s had a taste of how it could be. How can he pretend that he doesn’t know the warmth of Merlin’s body at night, or his smiles over the breakfast table? His divorce from Gwen had been heart breaking, though a large part of that had been more about the betrayal by her and Lance than the loss of the marriage. Losing Merlin, or never really having had him in the first place, might just be the one thing he isn’t equipped to face.

“You’re quiet.” Merlin tugs on their linked arms.

“It’s been a long day,” Arthur says, as the bedroom door creeks open.

“It’s crazy.” Merlin steps into the room, as Arthur ushers him in first. “We only got here yesterday, but it feels like I’ve been here for an age already.”

“Glad you came now, then?” Arthur asks, pretty sure he knows the answer, but seeking confirmation all the same.

“Yep.” Merlin flops backwards on the bed. “It was worth it for this mattress alone.”

“Nice to know where I fall in the pecking order.” Arthur tries for a pout, but he’s no match for Merlin. 

“Oh, you’re definitely in the top three.” Merlin props himself up on his elbows and flashes Arthur a grin. “After this mattress and the dogs. Although, there’s two of them so I suppose technically you’re fourth.”

“You do know I’m making a mental note of all these comments?” Arthur tugs off his Christmas jumper and folds it carefully on the nearby chair, because he knows Merlin is watching. “At some point we’re going to be back in the office and I foresee a lot of menial duties in your future. My dry cleaning for a start.”

“Morgana will save me,” Merlin declares confidently.

“Oh, you think so?” Arthur asks – although, in fairness, Merlin is probably right. She’d do it to aggravate Arthur if nothing else.

“I know so.” Merlin kicks off his shoes. “She likes me best.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. She’s always on the lookout for new minions.”

“Don’t be jealous.” Merlin smiles and lifts himself up off the bed. “I still like _you_ best.”

“After the mattress and the two dogs though, right?” 

Arthur slides his belt through its loops and tosses it on the bed, not missing the way Merlin’s eyes track the movement. Something is definitely shifting between them, and Arthur wants to know what might happen with a little _push_.

“You’re my favourite _person_ then.” Merlin huffs. “Some people don’t know how to take a compliment.”

“Is that what that was?” Pushing just a little further, Arthur unbuttons his jeans and eases them down his thighs – all those hours spent playing rugby have definitely paid off.

Almost as if they’re engaging in some game of chicken, Merlin tugs his own jumper off and makes short work of his jeans. Then stops suddenly. 

“You don’t think Morgana was serious about horse riding tomorrow, do you?”

“Don’t fancy a good ride, then?” Arthur really can’t help himself ask, and is rewarded by the sight of a flush dusted across Merlin’s cheeks.

“Arthur,” Merlin takes a tentative step forward, “are you..?”

But it seems Merlin’s courage fails just at the same time as Arthurs, because he tails off here and leaves Arthur to add,

“We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”

The expression on Merlin’s face is hard to decipher, though Arthur gives it a good go.

“I’m just going to...” Merlin nods at the bed and tugs back the duvet.

“Yeah, me too,” Arthur says, though he knows there’s zero chance of him sleeping right now. Not with something unmistakably like anticipation rushing through his veins.

He makes sure to turn the en-suite light off this time, and when he eases under the covers, Merlin’s definitely closer than he was the night before. Within minutes of Arthur settling onto his back, he feels Merlin shift onto his side and just knows he’s being watched. He can barely make out Merlin’s face in the moonlight around the gaps in the curtains. So he waits.

Eventually it comes.

“Do you think your father will forgive us when he finds out?”

Arthur hears the _me_ that Merlin really wants to ask but doesn’t dare say out loud. “I thought we were going to fake break up?”

“I don’t know.” Merlin sounds as uncertain as his words, and Arthur’s eyes adjust to the dark enough to see him bite his lip. “It’s just, he’s been so nice. Inviting me here, the presents, that holiday.” He grabs Arthur’s arm then. “What are we going to do about the holiday?”

“There’s no reason we can’t go as friends, is there?” Though the very words taste like ash in Arthur’s mouth.

“I suppose not.” Merlin’s grip relaxes but his hand remains. “He spoke to me earlier, you know?”

Arthur didn’t. “When?”

“I think it was around the time Morgana was humiliating you at billiards.”

“Cheek,” Arthur mutters, but he senses now isn’t the time for a rant against his sister and her propensity for cheating. “What did he say?” he asks warily, because yes, his father has accepted their _relationship_ , but Uther Pendragon is still a blunt, tactless man at heart.

“He was really nice.” Merlin pats Arthur’s arm gently as if reassuring him. “It was obvious he was trying to get to know me because I’m...because he thinks...” Merlin tails off and lets out a huff here. “He was making a real effort, you know? And I just hate that it’s all a lie.”

Arthur summons every last ounce of courage he can spare, because he knows that _this_ is the moment, and if he doesn’t take the chance now, when everything is so perfect, then he’ll never do it, never _have_ Merlin, and that thought is just too much to bear.

“You know, there’s a solution for that,” he says, and is impressed by how steady his voice remains.

“What? Because I don’t think that now is a go—”

Arthur slides one hand carefully up the smooth, warm skin of Merlin’s neck, until he’s almost cradling his head. Then, before he can second guess himself, leans up and presses his lips to Merlin’s still moving ones.

Merlin falls into stunned silence and his grip on Arthur’s arm tightens again. But he doesn’t pull away; if anything he sways towards Arthur until he’s back against the pillows, with Merlin’s body pressed against him.

Merlin pulls away after a moment, only a short distance, and now Arthur can make out his wide-eyed expression in the darkness. 

“Arthur.” His voice wavers slightly. “Do you mean it? Because if this—”

Arthur presses his hand gently against Merlin’s mouth. “I mean it,” he says firmly. “When have you ever known me to do something I don’t mean?”

Merlin licks his palm, causing Arthur to pull away his hand fast. “Apart from marrying a woman to please your father, you mean?”

Arthur grins into the darkness. “Dry cleaning, Merlin,” he teases.

This time it’s Merlin who initiates the kiss, leans over Arthur, one hand snaking under his t-shirt and the other cradling his skull against the pillows. Arthur can’t hold in the gasp as Merlin’s tongue slips between his lips and slides, hot and slick, against his own. When he’d imagined this moment, and he has, a _lot_ , he’d always seen himself as in control, but there’s something about being pressed into the mattress by Merlin’s weight that sets his nerve endings on fire.

Merlin pulls back then, but his blunt nails continue their path, scraping against the warm skin of Arthur’s chest. 

“And just so you know,” he says, and tightens his grip on Arthur’s head. “Because I have no doubt you’ve been wondering all day.” He presses another quick kiss to Arthur’s lips and then rests their foreheads together. “You make me happy, too.”


End file.
